


Good Ideas and Other Misfortunes

by Mohini



Series: MCU Ficlets [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 12:06:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16853677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/pseuds/Mohini
Summary: Commercial airline travel with Natasha and Clint. Nothing could possibly go wrong with that, right?





	Good Ideas and Other Misfortunes

Flying commercial seemed like a good idea. No Tony prying into where they are heading. No AI talking at random from the walls. Perhaps even a marginally lower risk of rerouting due to world ending catastrophes like floating cities and alien invasions. Okay, maybe not that last one, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

Problem number one turns out to be security. Nat has clearance, just like he does, but she forgot a couple weapons stashed on her person and that made for some long, tedious discussions before they made it to the terminal. Then came the actual boarding. Inefficient in a way that defied explanation. Nat was squirming in her seat, looking around and glaring at the entire passenger manifest.

Things go sharply downhill when they’re in the air and drink service begins. He’s flown with Nat enough to know that she will have a tiny bottle of vodka. Hold the mixer.

Ginger ale.

Nothing good will come of that. Nothing. Ginger ale is what Laura keeps in the bottom of the pantry, next to the Pedialyte and the saltine crackers. Ginger ale is for kids who’ve puked in their beds and wandered down the hall leaving messes for him to mop up in search of a grown up to make it better.

A good, long look at Nat informs him that it’s also for redheads with ghost white faces and ever so slightly glassy eyes.

“Nat?”

“M’fine.”

“Sure you are.”

Arguing with her is akin to convincing a wall to step out of your way. Clint opts not to waste his breath. Instead, he puts a hand on her knee and moves his thumb slowly up and down the outside of her thigh. It’s comfort, subtle enough to be accepted, grounding enough to be known. He is fluent in the language of her smallest tells, the tiny tremor in her hands as she opens the soda, sips at it, and swallows twice to fight it down.

A long, measured breath out, and Clint takes the drink from her, dropping the tray of his own cramped seat and holding it with one hand as he tugs her toward him. She goes, head resting on his shoulder body turning toward him. She’s warm. Too warm. Her shoulders hitch as she hiccups, fist brought swiftly to her lips.

She’s on her feet, walking down the aisle to the bathroom in long, steady strides. It’s only Clint who sees the set of her shoulders and winces at the way she holds herself so taut.

She’s ashen faced when she returns, and Clint wraps an arm around her shoulder this time, coaxing her to settle at his side, breathing slow, deep, the scent of vomit on her lips.

“Airsick?” he asks, though he knows better.

“Just sick,” she whispers, a shudder passing through her that has him reaching for the greaseproof bag in front of them before the first gasping inhalation hits.

“Fuck,” she murmurs, and she shakes her head in an automatic expression of frustration Clint is certain is not helping this situation in any way.

The passengers around them are staring now, watching the tiny redhead and her companion, watching him rub circles between her shoulder blades as she sits up, hunches over her knees with the bag tight to her lips. She’s a quiet kind of sick, back arching and the bag expanding in a wet plop and splash.

A flight attendant appears, a benefit of booking business class, Clint muses. The bag is removed from Nat’s hands as an open one is pressed into them. Several more are held out for Clint to take.

Nat groans and more liquid splatters into the bag, her stomach clenching inward hard enough to make Clint wince in sympathy. She must be nearly empty by now. But that doesn’t stop the retching, her slim abs pulling toward her spine with force that has to hurt.

When she lifts her head from the bag, her face has gone both flushed and ghostly pale. The attendant swoops in to take away the evidence, and Nat curls up in her seat with her head and shoulders in Clint’s lap. He rests a hand on her side, fingers slotting into the grooves of her ribcage as though it were made to house them.

Clint stays still, watches her breathing, her fluttering eyelids, and leans down enough to whisper to her that it’s going to be okay. It’s what he tells his kids. Nat’s not a child, but she’s his all the same.

 


End file.
